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short love poem

a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
a neve sussurra sobre mim
tudo dentro e tudo sem mim
quando a noite drifts ao longo das ruas da cidade
há três maneiras em que os homens fazem exame
simplicity
para estes braços brancos sobre minha garganta
eu v todas as sagacidades humanas
olhe para trás com olhos longing e saiba que eu seguirei
dê-me a fome
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu

 



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